Air travel + Volcanic ash = Free night stay on Airport floor

June 28th, 2010: The 3 hours that I needed to burn before my flight was to depart Atlanta to go to Buenos Aires, turned into an all nighter at the airport. You can’t beat that…a free night at the airport. It seems that the ashes from a volcano that erupted in Chile over 2 weeks ago is still causing some disruptions.

Standing in a line resembling in length of those during the Energy Crises or the Great Depression, we were issued a food voucher (2 for me…my smile earned me an extra one) and some free hygiene products in travel sizes that are portioned for the needs for someone who is the unfortunate size of an unborn fetus. It is good that they give us all deodorant to prevent the plane from smelling like a cattle truck, but I didn't have much need for the folding purple brush or XL t-shirt that could be used as a grown mans nightgown.

While in line, I met a woman from Argentina that has made this layover even better than it already was. If all goes well I will be in flying out at 7am. With a little rub of my rabbit’s foot…all should go well.

On the road again…almost.

June 27, 2011: On the road again…almost. I left Detroit, but I am not quite yet in Buenos Aires. Sitting at the airport in Atlanta, Georgia, I have 3 hours of my life to burn until I am officially back to being the butcher as I continue to hack up the Spanish language throughout my travels.

Sadly, one of my goals during my break was to study Spanish a few hours a day, but it ended up being at best, a few minutes a day - or till my legs became numb as I would multitask resting on the modified seat, in the restroom.

Today I left my childhood home in typical fashion…awake almost all night and not ready until 11 minutes after my intended departure. I thought that since I been home for a few months, I would have been ready days in advance, eating Bon Bons in 60’s-like fashion while I soak in a bath of dirty bubbles . It was a nice...thought.

Meeting up with my friend Cecile for a few weeks in Buenos Aires, I need to be extra aware of my surroundings and thievery since she has obviously been given a curse somewhere while living her life. Every vacation, there seems to be something that happens – in story-like fashion. It ranges from getting her backpack stolen twice at restaurants (a few days ago in Buenos Aires and her first time in Peru) to flying on a mechanically questionable plane that results in unexpected mid route hotel stay.

If we were traveling in the jungles of South America’s interior, I would recommend a visit to the village Shaman…but since we are not, I can only recommend the power of an unlucky one-legged rabbits foot or the possibility of subcontracting the use of someone else’s guardian angel.

Surgeon releases me from my medical chains…w/o probation

June 21, 2011: My Surgeon did not have the power to miraculously heal me by a wave of his hands over my wounds as Jesus was seen doing when he was tramping around the world…nor did he have the power of a Shaman in the jungles of South America to heal me with his powers during a drug induced hallucination. But, my surgeon had the ability to heal me with the assistance of modern technology, an assortment of stainless steel surgically tools and the legal rights to cut someone with a knife and not go to jail for doing it.

Today, I was given the green light by my surgeon to go back to South America, releasing me from my medical chains w/o probation…for the second time. Yes…the second time. My doctor informed me last week after a thorough inspection with an extremely attractive intern looking over his shoulder as my “lower” cheeks were embarrassingly pulled apart, that I will be able to fly out on the 27th…assuring me that the residuals I was experiencing was normal and would go away in time.

Going by the absurd 1-10 pain measurement system and on how I was continuing to…leak…I didn’t believe him and I didn’t believe that a miracle was about to take place. I felt that there was no way I would be able to confidently break away from my medical chains. Though today, one week later…I can confidently say that I am physically ready, as I am almost 90% healed with the other 10% hoping to take place within the next week and at the latest, as sit on a plane flying back to Buenas Aires, Argentina.

T - Minus 6 days and counting…

Exploring NYC with my "1st day in a prison" after shower limp

June 16, 2011: New York City is a metropolis that looks more like a modified cement rat maze than a concrete jungle, locking in an estimated 8,175,333 homo sapiens who scurry around here on a daily basis. Thankfully the people who live here participating in the so called “Rat Race” don’t at all resemble this furry large rodent, because if they did…I might have to start an organization to legalize bestiality.

How can a city like New York City magnetize so many attractive women is something I don’t think I will ever understand – and I once foolishly thought Medellin in Colombia had the largest consolidation of the most attractive women in the world.

Staying with my friends in Brooklyn and Spanish Harlem I ended up being extremely busy as they would either fake illnesses or legitimately request time off of work to show me around. From my visits to museums, fataurants (aka restaurants), an animal prison and general urban exploration, I found myself moving a bit slow as I continue recover from my surgery and the residuals that go with it – though happy that I will not always support these extra large leg hair pulling vaginal Band-Aids that women so unfortunately have to wear throughout their younger “leaking” years.

By the end of the day (10 of the 12 days) I was typically exhausted, supporting a limp that would strongly resemble a man after his 1st day in a prison shower.

On the weekends I would hang out at my friend’s house on the Jersey Shore, failing to see anybody who looked like Snooki from the questionable famous reality show, “The Jersey Shore.” One night, we were going to attempt to make contact with women such as these at a bar called DJ’s. But, after a hard day of Jamin’ at the farmers market, our 1.25 hour power nap turned into a 12 hour power sleep. I was unfortunately unable to maximize my purchase of dark tinted aviator sunglasses and a tight white tank top to expose my huge two-toned biceps to blend in to ward off any potential low IQ Jersey boys from ruining my scientific study of these Jersey girls - who live in the state that is considered to be the “Armpit of America.”

My visit was great and I need to thank Priceline.com and my friends for literally getting me out of my IKEA hospital bed. I will definitely miss them and the one and only NYC rooftop barbeque. Someday I look forward to ”when I get back,” in the United States for good so that I might be able to reminisce with people that I have known more than 2.5 days. Until then, I will not be experiencing this till I am fully netted by a fish in the sea.

Priceline.com are LIARS!

June 30th, 2011: At 1:21am while laying in comforts of my bed on a nice dose of Vicodin - happily supporting the pharmaceutical industry, I did some research to see the going rate of airfare to visit some friends in the US prior to going back to South America. Still not feeling well from my surgery, I was teetering on the imaginary fence on whether I should or shouldn’t go to concrete urban jungle of New York City, deciding to leave it up to Priceline.com to make the decision for me.

Seeing that Priceline.com was advertising that you can get up to 50% off airfare…I thought that I would place a bid for more than 50% off thinking that no airline would accept it, giving me the satisfaction of trying - sort of trying is more like it. Typing in a price that I was willing to pay, I clicked on the icon to place this ridiculous bid. The computer started to churn, making me think that I was definitely going to get rejected…confirming that I should be staying home to continue building my internal army of white soldiers to fight off infections and my internal non-unionized construction company to patch up my wounds.

The results were in…my bid was – accepted!? “What?!” I thought. Priceline lied to me…they led me to believe that they offer rates that are up to 50% off…not over 50% off. Giving them my credit card information prior to my bid, I was unable to retract it and get my money back. Happily but hesitantly, Priceline.com made my decision for me…I will be leaving in 3 days for a 12 day trip to New York City!

Top 2 most visited blog posts revealed – you sickos!

May 22, 2011: So how do I know that most people who read my blog do not have the slightest interest in anything about my off beat travel stories or photos? It is because I have the ability with Google to find out what internet searches are done to find my blog and what blog posts are being viewed.

Some interesting searches from my fellow readers are: dunkey intercourse, donkey intercourse, intercourse between man and donky video, woman and donkey intercource, man intercourse donkey, women intercourse with donkey, intercourse of donkey with women, colombia donkey virginity, intercourse with donkey, donkey sexual intercourse, donky with woman sexual intercourse, man sex female donkey, women in sexual intercourse with donkey, intercourse of donkey with donkey, donkeys north coast of Colombia, photo of donkey intercourse, venezuela donkey intercourse, good girls hostel, who sleeps bottomless with someone, what do girls sleep in, bottomless travel girl hostel, is it ok to sleep bottomless, girls who sleep bottomless, hostel girls sleeping photo, meryl streep bridges over madison + boob and hikingwithjesus.com.

I think most of the people who clicked on my site have been somewhat disappointed – that is including the person who wanted to hike with Jesus. My site has no photos of a man mounting a donkey with nice curves or of a woman who enjoys a 3 foot long donkey penis from time to time. I don’t even have one single disturbing photo of a girl who is sleeping in a hostel - wow, what people at home crave while their loved ones are not paying attention amazing me.

For over two years of blogging some of my travel stories as I tramp around South America…I must sadly say that the most visited posts are…(drum roll)…

#1: Do good girls sleep bottomless…in a hostel
#2: Sexual intercourse with a donkey

How many people does it take to go up a grown man’s anus?

May 20, 2011: Owning a set of rubber wheels and an abundance of frequent flyer miles that can magically whisk me away to friends’ houses, tents and hideouts throughout the continental 48 states and Canada without the need for red sequin shoes, Toto or an F5 Tornado to pull me from a city that at times feels worse than Kansas…and I am still unable to visit any of them.

An item that has needed some attention for an extended period of time has seemed to put me into a human body shop with similar qualities of an automotive body shop, taking much longer than anticipated for repair. I now seem to be anchored by a medical chain in Detroit…that is painfully connected to my anus.

After seeing 1 receptionist and 1 doctor in Colombia about 15 months ago, I could have taken care of my medical issues at a cost of an estimated $40 USD with same day service. Taking 12.045638 seconds of thinking, I decided against a suggested procedure by Dr. Big Belly as my mind recalled my prior visits with the Colombian torture specialist, Dr. Feel Good, who worked out of the same office. She was the doctor who previously attempted to fix a problem that I wrote about in my previous blog posts, Time to visit Dr. Feel Good to take care of “it” and the post Round 2 with Dr. Feel Good.

Back in the US and 72 days after my initial visit to the hospital, I am now on the road to recovery. I managed to log 4 visits and had direct contact with 7 receptionists, 10 nurses, 3 interns, 3 doctors, 1 anesthesiologist and 1 x-ray tech…resulting in being issued a human work order which included a skin graft, some external repair and some internal repair on some plumbing. Let me remind you…in Colombia, I could have had this fixed the same day after seeing 1 receptionist and 1 doctor. Which method of repair would have been better? I am not a member on a medical board nor do I have any medical qualifications, but I would have to go with the method which included the skills of an anesthesiologist offering a ticket to La La Land.

It is looking good that I will be back on the trail June 28th, at 87.00345% strength as I will continue to tramp around South America and wherever else this adventure happens to take me. So…how many people does it take to go up a grown man’s anus? 25 people...not including those who showed up while I was in La La Land.

Detroit…home of Dora the Destroyer and the Model T

May 14, 2011: I am still in Allen Park spending time with family while touring around visiting friends trying to discover new places and activities in the process. From seeing city streets with crucified baby dolls to accidently stumbling on the Detroit Hoedown where the people watching extravaganza drew a large amount Eminem-like gangsta cowboy wannabes and prostitute-like high boot wearing hoes to one convenient location.

Detroit and its surrounding area continues to keep me somewhat busy, learning that some of the best activities are those that are those that take a little research. There is nothing better than watching ink stained women on skates at a roller derby supporting names such as Honey Suckit, Dora the Destroyer and Elle McFearsome. There position requirements range from issuing solid bruise producing, breast popping, skate lifting blocks with other individuals whose objective is to avoid these women as they attempt to slink though the odd mix of Amazonian-like women and Prom queens on a circular cement flat track to accumulate points in a smack down fashion.

Other worthwhile use of my irreplaceable breaths the past few weeks was visiting Greenfield Village which is an enormous outdoor museum that helps me appreciate innovation while driving around in a 1914 Ford Model T. Some of the machinery I saw that was supposed to represent the old days, though sadly looked more like the modern days in countries throughout Asia and South America.

With 1.5 months left in the US before returning to South America, I realize that my vision of what was going to take place here was more of a dream than reality, with nobody to blame but myself. People are complicated and that certainly includes…me.

Today I drove a golf ball into my wiener

May 6, 2011: To lower my chances of embarrassment on an upcoming trip to a golf course, my father and I headed to a driving range to hit a bucket of balls. That trip ended up being a great reminder that golfing is a dangerous sport.

My first few practice swings seemed to be quite horrific as the golf ball would come back at me in slow motion after I would somehow hit the golf ball into the divider (that is there to protect others) instead of far out onto the course - causing me to take evasive action ducking and weaving to avoid injury. Other individuals quickly learned to stay away as my golf balls would magically appear in back of me, coming close to them as they took a break on the benches off to the side of the tees.

I was about 99% successful dodging the 1.620 ounce (45.93 gram) golf balls I hit at myself. There was only one ball that I successfully failed to dodge and that one resulted in a solid blow to my wiener as it hit the wall and came right back at me. My dad was standing there watching this happen in real time trying to figure out what I am doing wrong. For me, this shot was in slow motion – unfortunately…not slow enough.

Today, I drove a golf ball into my wiener and I am somehow still alive to tell you about it. Perhaps I am here for a reason…perhaps it is to educate golfers about the hazards of golfing. Next time I make it out to the practice facilities, I might have to consider being the only one out there wearing a helmet, a mouth piece and of course, a safety cup…to protect my wiener.

Note: Photo pulled from golfswinggurureview.com

A visit to a local penitentiary for Senior Citizens

April 22, 2011: I paid a visit to a past neighbor of mine who was convicted of being "old" and is now residing at a senior penitentiary serving life without payroll. It cannot be appealed…guilty she is. When you are immobile and in the 80’s, you can’t claim innocence and this she doesn’t do, accepting full responsibly for her minds lack of control over her the movements of her body that has unjustly gone on strike.

When entering the facility, I passed a multitude of breathing corpses…some more coherent than others. I can still hear the phlegm filled coughs and curdling heart beating screams. A large amount of the prisoners seemed to have a lack of neck muscles, preventing them to look at nothing more than their Velcro shoes and enlarged muffin tops as their heads hang down from their neck.

For some, they dream of a visit from loved ones. For others…it is a visit from Death in which they patiently wait. Sadly, they seem to be forgotten about by both. When a lot of us spend our whole lives running from Death and even those who love us, at this age a visit from either one would seem to be a blessing.

I don’t want to get old and I know that there is no way to avoid it. But, when I do get to a nice ripe ole age…I hope my memory mirrors a goldfish as I swim around from one end of my cell-like room to other end forgetting what I see every lap.

Please note: Photo of the old crusty woman was pulled from redreporter.com

Detroit: 124 international tourists a year…

April 17th, 2011: Detroit city happens to get about 124 international tourists a year. Last week, 3 of those 124 international tourists were friends of mine that stayed with me as I attempted to provide them with a snapshot of Detroit and the surrounding area. Being treated amazing well during my travels in South America by the locals and my friends, it was now my turn to happily host a group.

Detroit is hyped as being one of the most dangerous places in the US. Detroit even made Forbes #1 most miserable city in the US a few years back due to having the highest rate of violent crime and the 2nd highest unemployment rate. This is okay if you are a law enforcement officer such as Robocop or a rapper like Eminem. But, for the average obese Detroit grown native, it is not good if you are too scared to leave the confinement of your very own home, forcing you to watch reality shows while you eat Bon Bons all day as you go about disturbing your twins or girls out of boredom.

During my friends visit, I gave them a whirlwind tour to try to give them a snapshot of Detroit. From shooting handguns (a Colt 45 and a Beretta), visiting a working Ford Motor Company factory to watch the F150 pickup trucks grow up on the assembly line, strolling through some museums and seeing one of the most fascinating parts of Detroit…the modern day roman-like decay.

It was brought to my attention that there was a once fancy theater during the late 1920’s in downtown Detroit, which was barbarically converted into a parking garage. Wanting to gain access, we planned to just walk in but the chain linked gates were locked preventing us from an easy entry.

Heading to the security desk inside the adjoining building, there was a uniformed male security guard sitting at a control desk that was watching over the buildings decaying state. The “female card” was played, having my French friend Cecile ask him about us going in to take some photos, laying on the heavy French accent. The man proved that he was not the stereotypical overly testosterone filled male clouding his intelligence, not falling for our strategy.

The security guard even called us on or weak tactics, noting how we had the girl ask him when there were 3 others…all guys. We were busted, though it did give us a ticket to the 6th floor to see the property manager, Betty (name changed to protect her identity). Even though the “female card” was compromised, we were confident that the “male card” would work to grant us a lawful entry and…it did.

Looking at something like this parking garage was surreal. It is amazing to think that Detroit was once a beautiful thriving city. Throughout most of Detroit you can still see the ruins confirming its current struggles and pasts glory. From the streets that remind you of a modern day ghost town to the industrial areas that look as if it was on the outskirts of an atomic blast, the conclusion can easily be made…Detroit is a...historic dump.

*Please note: Photo of theater (before/after) courtesy of Wikipedia and the Detroit/shooting photos are courtesy of Cecile

Trippin for 1,050 miles (1689.8812 kilometers)

April 3rd, 2011: Just made it back to the Detroit area after completing a staggering short 1,050 mile (1689.8112 kilometer) road trip originating in Lebanon, Illinois…a city that sits outside St. Louis, Missouri, for those non-geographic international wiz kids. For the past few days my friend Cecile and I successfully traveled through a wide variety of flat chested-like landscapes at an exceptionally slow DUI (Driving under Influence) like-speed with no major incidents besides a GPS that went on strike and a cracked windshield.

Being professional tourists, my friend and I visited a plethora of fast-food restaurants, visually bug free Super 8 hotels and a went to a string of cheese fed tourist traps - which include famous strangers’ childhood homes such as the writer Mark Twain’s in Hannibal, Missouri and the suicidal Ernest Hemmingway in Chicago, Illinois. There was even a brief stop in Winterset, Iowa to see the childhood home of the extremely bad Stallone-style acting movie star of the past, John Wayne.

I wonder if I will ever do something so amazing that someone will one day create a foundation and successfully be able to charge a ridiculously priced admission to enter my childhood home, freezing the décor in a year that they think is significant - roping off the bedrooms and bathrooms with some nice bright red impassable felt ropes. My friend kindly informed me that the easiest way to achieve this vision of mine was to become a serial killer. Hmmm…I think I would rather do without the Charley Manson status, keeping my forehead tattoo free.

For the past 10 years I wanted to see the covered bridges of Madison County, which is nestled in Iowa that is known as the Corn State. Now that I was only 7 short hours away from this tourist magnet AND I had a co-pilot that did not own a penis, I thought that this was a good time to see these bridges that were made extra popular from the sappy chick flick, “The Bridges of Madison County.” It starred Clint Eastwood who was a traveling Photographer/Writer for National Geographic and Meryl Streep being the farmers cheating wife.

Staying in Chicago for a couple days, Cecile and I had an unrealistic plan set into motion to maximize our time here. One day, it was to have a museum marathon seeing 3 museums in a row. The first museum we entered to achieve this goal was the Chicago Institute of Art, which was so gargantuan, we barely had enough time to complete the complicated rat maze as we feed on the cheese and rat poison of the art industry. I guess when you are paying $18 USD for an admission ticket, you should expect more than toilet paper, soap and a clean bathroom.

While visiting Chicago, we paid homage to Lloyd Wright while exploring his old former house, who was a once living architect a long long time ago whose decaying houses and buildings can still be seen floating around the United States today.

Finally, if you go to Chicago and do not eat a real North American Pizza – specifically, a Chicago-style deep dish pizza…you are probably a cheese hater or a pasty stinky vegan. We, being neither of the two wanted to taste a piece of Chicago prior to our departure back to the Detroit Area. Seeing the arrival of this pizza at our table, I quickly concluded how the United States can so easily create a grotesquely obese person. I myself could see me in real-time: my stomach inflating, man boobs forming and an almost instantaneous bootie produced after the consumption of this mammoth pizza.

Ending the road trip we reached Detroit in the wee hours of the morning after a necessary pit stop to help keep me from getting ticketed for a DWS (Driving while sleeping). Back at my childhood home, we will be staying at the future site of the “Anthony Supertramp Foundation.” Thankfully now, admission is free from 2 am through 3am…on Sunday mornings.

My son plays the Air Guitar…with his wiener.

March 28th, 2011: It is time for me to leave the St Louis area and get back to tramping around. Before leaving my sisters, I took a moment to reflect on my visit and said goodbye to my furry feline I call my son, whose name is Willie. My last memory of him is not of how he caught me off guard as he gave me a bloody nasal piercing when giving him some tender goodbye hugs. It is the sight that will be etched into my memory for life from the night before when I was laying on the floor with him being 14 inches from my face…as he looked at me with his blackened eyes when he was giving his toy some tender humps - clearly being a sign for me to quickly get out of Willie’s way so that I didn’t get any unexpected money shots.

What was going through my sons head? Is he thinking about his stuffed animal Kermy the frog, or his feather toy that my father would distantly stroke him with the last time I left him for a journey tramping around on the other side of the globe? He seems to even do it now with nothing there. Is this him mixing it up a bit showing his skills on an Air Guitar with his wiener, or is it just exercises for when he is up for bat again?

Willie clearly has no idea on when it is and isn’t appropriate to play his Air Guitar or with his wiener. These actions seem to take place throughout the entire day and it is safe to say that there needs to be an intervention. Though, he is a cat and cats obviously do what they want to do, when they want to AND what they want to, when they want to. So now, when people are over and he is inappropriately mentally sliding into home plate, attempting to achieve his climax…I no longer need to show my friends on how high he can jump – so boring. I can get to show my friends on how well he can play the Air Guitar with his wiener or how much he is able to hump without taking a break. Not every cat owner can entertain his/her guests this way…making Willie…special.

In St Louis I managed surviving the heat, snow, torrential downpours, 233 mph wind and frigid temperatures that the Midwest can somehow bring within a 24 hours timeframe. I had a wonderful time the past few weeks visiting family over here, learning how to play Frisbee golf and even pulled off some new tourist sites - needing to specifically mention the St. Louis City Museum. This museum is more like a giant urban hamster cage/McDonalds play ground, but 1,203,000 times better and 20 time more dangerous. It must have been created by angry parents or hamster owners tired of watching them have all the fun. Good job St. Louis, you will oddly be missed.

A Frenchie with a gun and no armpit hair?

March 23rd, 2011: With my friend Melissa now back in Colorado after a brief visit to see me in Lebanon - finishing it with a wonderful old school departure at the airport (I was actually able to make it past security to the gate)…I am currently waiting for my friend from a French sleeper cell to make her way here for a little road trip back to Michigan. While there, I intend to give some lethal weapons training courses at my uncles house with a sizable selection firearms, in addition to other well thought out classes to help her blend into the Midwest without being compromised and identified as a Frechie when necessary.

As for hygiene…my friend left Paris two years ago so there is no need for me to explain the importance of shaved armpits, nor do I need to explain to her that heavy use of perfume does not constitute a shower – even though this is a horrid generalization that only represents…0.00449304% of the French population…with most of those individuals being either homeless or still stuck on Lee Friedlander’s, Nude (Madonna) 1979 photo, where she supported hairy armpits and a bush that is sizably larger than the one Moses saw up in flames on Mt. Sinai the day he collected two iPads from God.

(Please note that I sadly felt that I needed to censor Lee Friedlander' photo eliminating Madonna's girl parts)

Yes, you may Karate Chop my sister

March 20th, 2011: Talking with my brand spankin’ new brother-in-law (in my sisters presence), we sat down and set up some simple boundaries on what he can and can’t do with my sister when she needs some good ole’ disciplining after I leave Lebanon, Illinois. The “cants” range from no kicking and spitting to definitely no hitting - with a closed hand - making it clear that If he even thinks about raising his tone to her, or giving her the evil eye…it will by no means be accepted, resulting in me paying him a little visit with a 5’1” Colombian, supporting a mullet, golden front tooth and aviator sunglasses.

Yes, this does seriously limit him from issuing the standard physical abusive moves that any t-topped Camaro driving, stained wife beater model can do. Looking into several different alternatives but effective disciplinary measures we came to the decision that my sister can be issued a properly delivered Karate Chop whenever the situation sees fit. I can just see him now saying, ”No officer, I didn’t punch her…I Karate Chopped her.”

(Training photo courtesy of boxing-muaythai.blogspot.com)

So…as of today, my brother-in-law is in Karate Chop training. Other than consulting my brother-in-law, I have been focusing on and achieving my goals during this side trip to the US…which is to catch up with family and friends. Whether it is me beating them at all card games or schooling them in bowling with scores that mirrors a child with no vision…or arms.

A wedding and a…hockey game

March 18th, 2011: After 2 weeks being back in the US, I discovered that not much has changed over the past 23 months but the unfortunate increase in prices of a McDonalds value meal and that my sister, Aimee has lost her last name…dropping from a whopping 10 letters to a measly 4 - if she thought that bigger is better she would have never have made such a decision.

My sister’s wedding took place at a professional hockey game – a location only truly appreciated by those individuals from Detroit (aka Hockey Town) and of course by all maple leafed flag swinging Canadians. During the ceremony I tried to prevent my tears from falling, hoping they would freeze as I tilted my head back to contain the excessive buildup within the cavities of my eyes. With my sister now married off…I am the last one in my family that is holding out. Is it pickiness, my professional “Tramp” status, or is it fear? - I would like to say it is the first two of the three.

With my sister on her honeymoon in Vegas, I have her and my new brother-in-law’s house all to myself. I have not yet capitalized on being alone with the ability to run around the house stark naked staining the couches when I take a seat.

With plenty disposable time, I have been doing what I have wanted to do for the longest time…vegetate. Yes…that is correct, vegetate. I have miraculously taken form of a giant albino-like green bean, lounging around on the floor in front of a fireplace, burning what hairs I have left on my body too resting my beans on a wonderfully comfortable couch. Renting a massive amount of non-pirated videos from Redbox I am attempting to catch up with Hollywood, feeling as if I am almost caught up with what I have been missing…which is…nothing.

1st day in the US…and I run into a crazy bug eyed rosary carrying psycho

March 4th, 2011: 1st day in the US and I run into a crazy bug eyed rosary carrying psycho with my 15 year old nephew. I had to laugh as I sat there at the ice cream shop consuming a Superman ice cream cone hoping that this cone did not just taste good but had the ability to transform me into Superman – that is, the Superman before he took a spill on a horse made from kryptonite.

With my nephew who was facing me in the booth, the man in the booth behind him with his eyes bearing a strange resemblance of a bug who was angrily staring at me, mumbling words of profanity as he held the rosary – not sure if he was cursing at it or praying to it asking the Virgin Mary for the strength not to kill this frail looking man across from him. Scooting over so my 5’11” nephew would screen me from bug eye’s face, he would then scoot over so that he could continue to try to get me into participating in a starring match that I was uninterested in playing.

After 22 or so months with only minor difficulties in South America, I felt that today was going to be the day that I was going to fight a crazy man that was much bigger than me with my nephew there to watch. In my mind I scanned the ice cream shop looking for other that might be able to help me after I restrained him. Seeing 3 grey hairs and a work staff that consisted of a batch of unbutchy women, I came to the conclusion that I was going to be holding on to him for a while till the police arrived.

Thankfully, he went to the restroom to perhaps toss some water in his unblinking eyes and that was when I told my nephew that we should go, not wanting to go into detail on what has been going on behind his back the entire time. Leaving the ice cream shop, we escaped any possible confrontation on my 1st day back in the United States – though it would have been funny for something dramatic to take place now, when I pushed the so called envelope this entire trip.

Home at last! Home at last! Thank God Almighty, I am home at last! – or am I…home at last?

March 4th, 2011: Home at last! Home at last! Thank God Almighty, I am home at last! – or am I…home at last? Arriving at the Detroit airport I was picked up my friend Jean who is one of my few BFF’s - who didn’t even have to earn this spot by participating in some painfully dreadful Paris Hilton-like reality show.

From the airport we made a direct run for the border…more like Taco Bell. With this being my first meal back in the United States, I clearly knew I was no longer in South America as I would continue making visits to the bottomless soda machine capitalizing on free refills as I pumped gallons of caffeine packed Diet Mountain Dew down my throat as supplied my body with its fix.

With my parents out of town, I was dropped off at my empty childhood home, bringing life back into its empty corpse. Roaming around the house that I grew up in…I was shocked to see that my parents’ décor was not that of a couple in their 60s’…it was as if their style was somehow mirroring a much younger couple. I was proud of them since typically, people their age have a massively amusing collections of dolls, bells, spoons or some other clutter collections going on to fill up there excessive free time when they are not volunteering or conversing with other seniors.

A collection of guns, shot glasses or knives in a way sounds good when you think about most senior citizens / AARP members conversations are at best, 76% about their pill regime, aches, pains or about who has recently been incarcerated in a senior home, wooden box or urn…with the other 21% being filled with who has the best children / grandchildren in typical fishing story type fashion and the remaining 3% filled with good conversation.

After picking up the carcass of the dead plant that died from starvation in my parents’ living room, I walked back and forth as a duck at some carnie wanting to be shot with a BB gun. Painfully bored after 30 minutes in the empty house, I jumped into my car and headed up and down streets trying to find family and friends houses that I could no longer remember where they lived.

After several failed attempts of going to wrong houses and asking for people who they did not know…I gave up…I quit…and decided to go, shopping. Hitting the stores, I began to restock my backpack getting items for my departure in 3.5673 months. How awful I thought…after only a few short hours in the US, I was already planning / anticipating my departure back to South America – lost…and a bit...confused.

It takes two to Tango…and steroids

March 3rd, 2011: For four days I tore through Buenos Aires. As most people know, Buenos Aires is known for its shopping, Tango, world famous meat and stunning women – which to some, stunning women is the same as world famous meat.

With plenty to do and a limited amount of time till my return back to this enormous city, my friend and I decided to do a little, a lot and a lot a lot of shopping with a side trip to a tango class and show.

Playing follow the leader with my friend Sabrina, she reminded me of the great joys of clothes shopping with a woman. It has been a while but, she let me show off my previous skills of being a professionally purse/backpack holder as she would disappear in the dressing rooms for extended periods…at times wondering if she might have escaped out the back window when I wasn’t looking.

One evening after completing a Tango class, I was issued my official certificate of completion. With my confidence being really high…too high…I thought that somewhere my future, I had a smidgen of hope to become a successful Tango dancer - giving me an opportunity to get some legitimate cheap feels without the need to serve time or explain my actions to anyone.

After folding up the certificate which was going to make it in the trash shortly following the show, the other graduates and I were then corralled into another room to see the professionals perform the Tango… crushing – more like nuking my hopes to ever be able to Tango – that is unless I believe in dropping the age limit on who I will date to 12 year olds. I say this because the men would easily toss the women dancers around with subhuman strength as they somehow did playful ball kicks between the guys’ legs without fazing them.

I don’t have any future plans dropping my age limit on who I will date to an imprisonable age, nor do I see myself spending half my life in the gym oiling my body and shooting up on steroids so that I can toss an average size woman with curves and some junk in her trunk around on the dance floor. So, I figured I will forgo learning how to tango at a high level of expertise and just continue holding up walls next to the dance floor. Better yet, I need to simply stick to my original plan and...learn to salsa.

Expedition to Antarctica comes to an end

February 26th, 2011: Back from a 10 days expedition to Antarctica I can’t possibly write at a level to help you experience what I saw all the way down here by the means of binary computer code in which you are now fixating on.

Of course I saw a multitude of penguin nudist colonies, crackling ice, treacherous penis shrinking water and was even fortunate enough to see the cartoon, “Happy Feet” which screened one night on the way back to human civilization. Obviously there was also a variety of birds, seals, sea whales and land whales in which miraculously through evolution are now able to walk on land with an extreme likeliness to humans. From weaving between icebergs, decrepit pale walking human corpses, living and dead hollowed out penguins, birds and sea lions…there were all memorable experiences for me to see.

The ship was not filled with the human colony of grey hairs in which I originally expected. Minus those few walking corpses, a lot of the people were rather young with many of them supporting much more head hair than me – whether it is natural or has pubic or back origin, I don’t know. Remember that my definition of “young” is fluid, in which is now...44 years old with an error margin of 5 + years with an upward trend the older I get. Of coarse there are exceptions to this definition, but this is just a general rule of “piggy that went to the market” – aka: your big toe.

My time on the boat when not on land, ice or in a Zodiac was filled with a variety of lectures in which I struggled to not sleep through and even worse…facially leak through - but was somewhat inevitable due to little hours of sleep and from the peaceful – at times extreme, rocking of the boat.

Being fed to the point of worrying about some potentially vicious self imposed stretch marks, I successfully packed down loads of amazing food, doubled up on desserts and heavily worked at attempting to empty three bottomless cookie jars that were available from 12:00am to 11:59pm. Toward the end of the trip I came to the conclusion that I will never be able to embark any sort of boat for a trip around the world without unintentionally creating job security for the medical industry that specializes in premature obesity.

Late nights of high school level discussions drawing out tears of laughter was something in which I didn’t expect from this expedition but truly enjoyed as my maturity dropped me to an age that I am unwilling to disclose.

Now that I am back on land, unable to go any farther south since it has already been done, I need to begin to make my way north. It is not that north is the only direction to go…I can think of two other directions…west and east. But for now heading north is my only option since my sister will be getting married in the next few weeks. I will be taking a 3.5 month break from traveling in South America and will be traveling around the US and Canada visiting family, old and new friends that I met along the way.

Returning to Buenos Aires in Argentina at the end of June, my South American journey will continue…but to where? This I don’t know…but starting March 4th, my North American journey will begin.

Temporary loss of an appendage in Antarctica

February 18th, 2011: Don’t know what got into me…perhaps, pure stupidity. For someone who would rather swim in a hot steamy outhouse in a pool of fecal matter before swimming in a cold river – today I voluntarily placed myself into perhaps the coldest body of water that I have ever been in, leaping into an icy bay with some goliath sized ice cubes. Originally organizing a group of individuals to join me in my stupidity to help me from backing out, all of them changed their minds when it was time to prepare for our infiltration into the water. A poor leader I must be, failing to lead my troops into a funnel of stupidity…so I did it alone.

Taking off from a dead start I began brainlessly running till the water was deep enough for a full frontal dive completely submerging myself, feeling as if I might have gone into a brief state of shock. Spinning around I did a mini-back float…and if my memory stands correctly, I added a mini-flutter kick for some style points before dashing to the edge of the water on the way out, getting a photo of myself holding a piece of ice as I stood there in my 2 year Jockey’s - thank god that they are naturally black (if they were white, I guess I would then be telling you about my chocolate-vanilla swirl Jockey’s – NOT a good visual). The camera toting individuals on the shore were surely admiring my pastiness, while amusingly noting how my appendage managed to mirror a turtle as I exited the water.

While catching the next Zodiac back to the ships conveniently placed sauna…my body performed a major workout attempting to keep warm as I convulsed in crack addict fashion – exhausted upon my arrival to the ship.

I still can’t believe I’m in Antarctica. I have not planned it, but I just realized today that I have officially explored all 7 continents. Not a goal I was striving for so it didn’t feel like a huge accomplishment but I did it never the less - so…what’s next?

*Please note that I uploaded a multitude of photos of this trip in my...Antarctica photo album.

Saving a Chinaman’s life with fishlike eyes

February 18th, 2011: Waking up this morning I thought I was going to do a lot of things in Antarctica but one of them was not saving an old Chinaman’s life. Did I really save his life? – well, let me say that I saved him from some great discomfort and perhaps some broken bones perhaps limiting himself from some late night action with his 70 year old wife in his suite on our ship.

Clearly Mr. Chinaman was walking up a snowy trail to a summit that he obviously shouldn’t have been on. Telling by his drunken walk of exhaustion, swaying left and right I was waiting for the obvious fall off the side...in which the right side of the trail was a steep angled slop supporting a high number of incalculable degrees with some rocks patiently awaiting a visitor.

Tipping over, he went to the right going face first with his $3,450.89 Canon camera necklace. My brain conveniently slowed time as he began a slow motion penguin slide on his man boobs down the slope. Quickly I lunged forward off the trail grabbing his toe of his boat with my pencil like fingers that somehow locked as if my hands morphed into the strength of pitbull’s jaw. His eyes became bigger than his oversized circular glasses as he looked at me in a panic.

As a scene from a poorly written action movie starring Keanu Reeves, I calmly said, “I got you buddy” to the old Chinaman. He tried to curl up to me with the abs that he lost some 40 year ago. As I managed to switch my grip to his frail forearm, I felt someone else grabbing my ankle to keep me from doing a head slide down the slope with the Chinaman.

Today, I was a hero to the Chinaman with big fishlike eyes as he graciously thanked me, when I should have been thanking him for a little bit of unexpected excitement for the day.

I predict a major boating accident in Antarctica…

February 14th, 2011: “Is there a photo of the Explorer?” I asked the travel consultant. Quickly looking up from her computer she fires off, “Don’t let them hear you say that.”

You see, I mistakenly asked for a ship that is no longer...in use, by GAP Adventures (the company I am I will soon be traveling with) thinking that the Explorer was the name of the ship I am going on - when it is actually the Expedition. Until November 17th, 2007 at 1900 hours, this ship no longer belonged to GAP Adventures, since at this time in submarine fashion it dived off the coast of Antarctica and parked itself at the bottom at a frigid depth of 1130 meters after hitting some less forgiving ice – making the insurance company its proud new owners.

I enjoy being reminded about things like this...30 hours prior to my departure on my 10 day expedition to Antarctica - it certainly makes things more exciting. But unfortunately, something extraordinary like this is unlikely to happen to me. My reasoning is quite simple…my parents pray for me too much.

I was just recently stripped of experiencing “Mr. Ferry meet Mr. Island” at 3am as the Navimag’s hull was torn during their introduction…taking in water, it created a delay on getting to Puerto Natales on its scheduled time. If I waited until just the next departure (7 days later), I would have been able to dawn my life vest awaiting for the signal to abandon ship creating a lifetime of better ferry stories besides my post about “Thong Girl.”

In addition to this boating mishap, I was about 2 weeks off when I was in the Galapagos Islands to experience the exciting emergency exit in the wee hours of the morning as the Comorant II (a different boat than what I was on) broke into pieces, sinking right after everyone was saved.

On this trip of mine to South America I have seemed to miss some rare sinking’s or boating accidents by just 2 weeks or less. With this said…I predict a major boating accident in Antarctica to happen in the next few weeks, but not involving me - that is unless, I kindly ask my parents to kindly cut down on the prayer.

*Photos: Explorer (Wikipedia), Navimag (La Prensa Austral) and the Comorant II (Sangay Touring)

Anthony Supertramp / Beaver Hunter

February 13th, 2011: Today I set off in Terra del Fuego National Park with a goal. My goal was to see a nice wet destructive furry North American Beaver. After about 5 hours of hiking I reached the Hoover dam of Beavers. I made myself a comfortable placement along its side and was ready to wait all day until a visual sighting.

After about 30 minute of patiently waiting with my camera along my side, ready to take a shot of a beaver as soon as it surfaced for some air, or better yet…watch its tail in action, back tailing her loved one who might have given her some lip – in this case, given her some teeth - laughing...I can think/write of the most supudist things.

Thinking about my positioning and lighting, I was reconsidering if I was in a good spot...until I thankfully overheard a tour guide’s spiel stating that beavers are...nocturnal. Being only 3 pm, I was not wanting to believe him so I stayed a little bit longer, hoping there was an insomniac beaver or even a workaholic so that I could still see one of them. I even tried to telepathically ask a beaver to show herself - obviously not working.

Leaving the park today I was unable to see a North American beaver here in South America. With better timing, a little work and a smidgen of luck, perhaps the next time I go beaver hunting, I will score some…photos. With some persistence and some good timing, the odds will hopefully be in my favor.

176,924 penguins – excluding the 12 dead decomposing ones

February 9th, 2011: Taking a extremely large zodiac on steroids, I with which a bunch of other camera touting tourists to Magdelena Island right outside Punto Arenas – a towns name that make me think, “ Punto Anus” every time I say it or type it. I left Argentina and came back into Chile just to see these penguins. On an official government pamphlet in which I was given by the park ranger upon entering the natural monument, read that there was something like 65,543 penguin couples.

How in the – how in the…heck, do they know there are 64,543 couples?! What about the single parents, widowers, divorcees, bachelors, bachelorettes and kids? The tour agency seemed to tell me conflicting information saying there was over 180,000 penguins - though was much better than only identifying the couples, but still…180,000 penguins? Needing to know the true number of penguins, I thought I should do thorough recount…counting only 176,924 penguins – which includes the 2 that were Siamese twins counting them as 4 penguins and excluded the 12 dead decomposing ones.

Through my observations most penguins are well mannered in front of others unlike dogs, monkeys or those human couples at Santiago’s spit guzzling park. I on this island I happily didn’t see any penguins performing any copulation – meaning no public monkey style or doggy style shows…even though thinking about it makes me laugh with their paddle like hands not being able to do much except for perhaps a little spanking here and there.

Being told before leaving to the island to expect a rough ride (the captain later telling me 3 to 5 meter waves/swells were common) I needed to choose my boat wisely. Picking what looked like the nicest zodiac out of the two to choose from, I noticed after boarding the boat that the people in the other boat actually had to put life preservers on – thinking that I must have picked the better boat since our captain must have had enough confidence in his boat for the 45 minute boat ride on the Strait of Magellan to get us there.

Seeing all the penguins here made me feel like I was robbed on the island, Chiloe which is also in Chile - making the big effort a few weeks back to reach that place to see penguins. In Chiloe, I saw more penguins made in China being sold as souvenirs than what I actually saw. After today, I will never have to go out of my way to see another penguin colony again…except for perhaps the animated one in the cartoon, “Happy Feet,” but no more than that.

A 8 year old child wielding a handgun at the border

October 8th, 2011: Today in customs while crossing the border back into Chile, an 8 year old was wielding around a black handgun – a black plastic toy gun to be more precise, but it looked like a black gun. Pointing it at others he would pull of a few imaginary rounds every so often at the people standing around. This was all taking place while some other kids seemed to be quite resourceful in the long lines, turning the giant x-ray machine back rollers into a human slide while I think that its real purpose was to examine everyones baggage for fruit smugglers.

Customs seems to be serious about outside fruit from entering the country…but what about black handguns? I hope this doesn’t give any arms dealers any bright ideas but this wouldn’t be a bad idea if you needed to pass a shipment through…just give a school bus load of kids some unloaded handguns. But most importantly…make sure their parents didn’t pack the kids any fruit in their lunch boxes if you want to make sure they make it across the border without any problems.

The great peaks of El Chalten and my roommates…Ms. Peaks

February 6th, 2011: Walking into my 6 bed dorm at precisely 4:47pm after a long day of tramping around and taking photos of the numerous spectacular peaks that horseshoe the town of El Chalten…I overheard two girls whispering on the bottom bunk on the other side of the dorm. It sounded as if they were having a serious talk - thinking that girls are funny that when they have problems how they can just lay in single bed with each other just chatting away…if guys do something like that, you are gay.

Tired and not being in a social mood to talk to the two girls from Berkeley (California), I dug out my backpack from my locker, preparing for an exciting time of giving my backpack an abortion so that I can close it – yes, my backpack somehow got to be pregnant again. Hearing one of the girls asking me a question, I looked over to answer her - I was taken by surprise.

There she laid in bed naked with her arms behind her head exposing her peaks with a sheet covering only her shrubbery with another naked girl who supported hairy armpits next to her side - but she was fully blanketed. No, I don’t have Superman or TSA supervision to see through the sheets…Ms. Pits changed in front of me yesterday as we went over the basic dreaded backpacker questions with a topless twist on what is my name, where I am from, how long I have been traveling for, shoe size – blah, blah and blah.

Turning back around after I did a double, triple, and a quadruple take as I tried to bit on my inner checks to keep from smiling and to not laugh. What do I do to get myself into these strange hostel predicaments? - this can’t be happening…it just can’t be. What I walked in on was not just a casual conversation about a new design (god forbid) or knot used for their hippy bracelets/necklaces they must secretly sell on the side. What was taking place right before my ears was what lesbians MUST do better than guys after sex…talk. I should have listened to this conversation of theirs so that I could have picked up some pointers - instead of just asking the typical backpacker questions…what is your name, etc – laughing.

Ms. Peaks continued to talk to me as I leaned against a bed on the floor with my back turned as I multitasked, continuing to go through with my backpacks abortion. It seemed strange talking to them with my back turned, so every so often I would turn around and try to look at the girl with hairy armpits in the eye…I had some success. Then I would turn back around right before I couldn’t hold a straight face any longer. Ms. Peaks said I must have seen a lot while traveling as long as I did. I agreed and wanted to say that what I am seeing now might have been the weirdest, but I refrained.

Not finished, I zipped my backpack, deciding that it was time for me to take a well needed shower, so that they can finish…talking. I wasn’t even sure if I should have taken a shower so soon after our conversation because I didn’t want them to think it was because of them…but at this point, it didn’t seem to matter.

Dorm life…today was filled with peaks and adventure outside and inside my dorm. Traveling has a tendency to hand you stories without the need to even search for them…they seem to just happen at the weirdest times and places.

National Geographic photo shoot with a disposable camera

February 2, 2011: Today I was able to see the Perito Moreno Glacier via boat, bus and by my very own two 12 inch flat feet as I walked on the boardwalk of unbelievable web-like proportions. Observing what I could only have dreamt or watched on the National Geographic Channel in the past…I was so close to this huge-chunkus glacier, which according to Wikipedia is 30 km (19 mi) long, 5 km (3 mi) wide and 74 meters (240 ft) above the water with a total ice depth of 170 meters (558 ft).

When a section of ice would pull itself free from the glacier, it would do a spectacular cannonball like dive into the frigid water sending water shooting up to great heights disappearing before eventually resurfacing as it would come up for air. This was so unbelievably dream-like; it would cause my legs to shake – though I can only speculate that my shaky legs were the result of my eyes seeing something so surreal, that my body did not know how to react. Thankfully for me, my body didn’t decide to cry a river so I will not complain about my leg shake - though if compromised…can easily be covered up by a nice little lie by saying that I was cold.

Today, I truly felt as if I was right on a National Geographic photo shoot with my disposable camera slung around my neck. Photo or no photo…it was one of the greatest shows on earth.

The wonders of Mr. Allah with a sharp sterilized ice pick

January 31st, 2011: Just came back from “W” in Torre del Paines National Park which was perhaps the best trek in my entire 38 years and 5 months of life. It was as if Mr. Allah himself picked into my brain with a sharp sterilized ice pick and miraculously pulled information out of my grey oversized mass in the depth of my skull and built my vision of natural perfection.

The 5 day trek itself provided nonstop visual beauty and a nice physical beating upon my body. Goliath mountains with white snow hair in all different lengths and thicknesses covered them with surrounding lakes speckling the land in a variety of shades of blues as a multitude of waterfalls from little and great heights pouring into the rivers, feeding this great natural machine. If it wasn’t for the obese backpack with unusable wheels that I hung off my back…caring everything but the junk in the trunk, it might have been a simple 7 – 9 hours a day walking up, down, around and under the trail as the vision of pizza, hamburgers, soda and thoughts infiltrated and stuffed my brain.

With it not getting dark until around 10pm, it was hard to not to stop hiking at a reasonable 5 or 6 pm. Not wanting to waste valuable daylight hours my friends and I ended up calling it quits from the trail averaging around 9:04pm with some extra time to add some spent calories prior to bedtime. I do love nature and I do enjoy hiking, but I feel that I might have been coming down from my hiking vertex/peak for the past 19 years.

The weather in Patagonia changed as quick as the Dow Jones Industrial Average for the better and worse. It ranged from the beautifully warm sun rays containing a ton of vitamin D with a strong dose of UV cancer burrowing additives, snow, horizontal rain and category 1 hurricane wind that happily kept away all things that fly – ALL things that fly…from drunken Japanese Kamikaze pilots off course to all hated horse flies.

The forces of Patagonia happened to create the perfect storm one night and great stories as I was natures toy as it violently shook my tent in as if it was Regan MacNeil’s bed in the film, Exorcist during the night with gale force winds…hearing it tear across the land prior to impact as I leaned against one of the tent poles as the other side of the pole was supported with my backpack to keep my tent poles from buckling, eventually flooding my tent in knuckle deep water - breaking my rental shops dreams of hiring a waterproof tent. Thankfully I didn’t drown since I was in a large sleeping bag that seemed to suck up a large part of the water during the night.

From the overall great weather for Patagonia standards (and mine), perfect views, wonderful memories of witnessing the glaciers suicidal jumps of faith off the face of the mountains while experiencing it all with my friends from Israel whom I met on the trail who so kindly let me join them on their honeymoon for the past 5 days – helping make this trip to Patagonia a hard place to forget…even if did happen to have a lapse in memory in the near or distant future.

REMINDER: Click on the Photo Album for Chile to see a fraction of my trip photos